


Bleeds to an End

by smallestshrike



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood Play, Cutting, F/M, Kink, Knife Play, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Non-Consensual Violence, Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, kink: blood play, kink: knife play, tw blood, tw cutting, tw self harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 00:57:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2089692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallestshrike/pseuds/smallestshrike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Violet Harmon attempts to unravel the secrets of the Murder House, starting with the mysterious and enigmatic Tate. He doesn't want her to cut herself, but he never said anything about cutting /him/...</p>
<p>Murder House AU, canon through 'Piggy Piggy' and then more or less a huge departure. Written while AHS:MH was still open canon, and therefore things get a bit wacky. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well! I started writing this fic back in 2011, when AHS: Murder House was first airing on TV. I was excited by the show (the first show I'd been really into for a long time), and wanted to 'fill in the blanks' while I waited for new episodes to come out. "Bleeds to an End" was my answer to the many questions and cliffhangers AHS:MH left us with each week--but of course, as the show progressed, many of the seeds/theories I laid in my fic were blasted into oblivion by the...well, by the canon (see what I did there? Canon? Cannon? Yeaaaah!). So, I admit, I lost the momentum for it and it's lain unfinished ever since. However, this remains my most rated/reviewed/followed fic on FF.net, and I thought I'd cross-post it here! Maybe even (three years on) actually finish it, if there's interest. Enjoy!
> 
> Many thanks to ohyellowbird and grayglube from Tumblr & FF, who looked at drafts of this fic and were, in its writing, unendingly supportive and awesome.

Violet lay awake for a long time that night, replaying the events in the kitchen.

Constance wanted her to help Tate 'move on'? And that weird new age lady with the hick name-- _Billie Dean_ \--giving Violet all that crap about being _chosen_. About seeing spirits.

Right. _Spirits_. Sure.

It didn't make sense. Was actually the fucking craziest shit she'd ever heard. How could it be possible that Tate _wasn't alive_ (Violet preferred 'wasn't alive' to 'dead'--'dead' was too confronting. Too much like the things she'd seen in the basement. And Tate wasn't like those things. Was he?).

He had fallen asleep with his hand curled inside hers. He was warm. He was _breathing_.

She was cracking up. That was the only logical conclusion. Maybe her mom was right, and there had been some lasting psychological damage from the break in. Or maybe Constance was just fucking with her. That seemed pretty likely. Constance Langdon had been tapped in the head even _before_ Addy had died, sneaking around the house, making vaguely ominous statements. Perhaps the loss of her child had just pushed her over the edge, and now she wanted everyone to suffer as she was suffering.

But would Constance set up a fake website? Would she even know _how_?  The information about the massacre at Westfield High had seemed pretty legit. Constance was crazy, sure--but surely not crazy enough to make up and substantiate a brutal school shooting just to freak out the girl next door. 

Violet let got of Tate's hand, disentangling her fingers carefully, making sure not to wake him. He stirred a little in his sleep, a small snuffling sound as he buried his head in the pillow. With his halo of messy golden hair, he looked more like an angel than a ghost. 

She sat up, eyes moving slowly over his sleeping form. No way. It wasn't possible that he'd done those things. It didn't make sense that the same boy who'd brutally slaughtered his classmates would have sat with her in the bath-tub forcing her to regurgitate the pills she'd swallowed. The way he'd held her. So tightly she almost couldn't breathe.

Violet ran a hand through her long hair. It was too much to process. The break in. Crazy Constance Langdom. The shit she'd seen in the basement, and Tate, and what he might have done. The fact that he might not even be _alive_.

She shifted to the edge of the bed, swinging her legs off. Outside, a light rain was beginning to patter at the darkened window panes. Violet glanced over her shoulder at Tate, sighing. It was difficult to look at him now--it made her feel like a crazy person (though she couldn't work out whether she was crazy for half-believing Constance, or crazy for not believing her at all).

"What is this?" she muttered to herself, tangling her hands in her hair in frustration "…fucking  _Twilight_?"

As quietly as possible, she slipped off the bed and over to her dresser. The top was littered with crap--old CDs, books, jewellery, little china knick-knacks her grandmother had given her. She opened up a book, a well-thumbed copy of Sylvia Plath's  _Ariel,_ and drew out the envelope concealed within the pages. All teenagers kept stuff hidden in their rooms. Sure, most of them probably weren't hiding razor blades..

She drew out a new one, unwrapped it from its waxy paper: fresh and shiny, it seemed to glitter in the low light of her bedroom lamp. Once again, she looked over at Tate, still sleeping, one arm tucked under the pillow. 

Tate had talked plenty about how he'd been a cutter--he'd even shown her the scars. It was one of the things that had drawn her to him, although a small part of her had known it probably wasn't healthy, probably wasn't a foundation on which to build a relationship. But fuck healthy. Tate understood her. He didn't see the marks on her arms and demand a reason for them, didn't tell her that it was stupid, or bad, or wrong.

Tate accepted her. For who she was.

She turned the razor over in her hand, savoring the feel of it--so weightless. So dangerous.

She could cut herself right now. End it. End all the questions, the confusions. But she'd promised.

And then a thought occurred to her, creeping out from the shadows of her mind to snarl around her conscious thoughts.

_Could ghosts bleed?_

Violet returned to her bed, knelt down on the floor next to Tate. Her heart was drumming a frantic staccato in her chest, so hard she could almost hear it. She bit her bottom lip, reaching out for Tate's hand. Cautiously, she stroked her thumb over his palm. Tate gave a small sigh, his brows furrowing.

Violet turned his hand over so the palm faced upward. He didn't move, didn't seem to notice as she pushed the sleeve of his sweater up, enough to reveal the soft white underside of his wrist.

This was a stupid idea. She knew that. What kind of sick person thought about cutting up their boyfriend whilst he slept? But she needed to know. And it wasn't like she could ask, could she? ' _Oh hi, met your mum, apparently you're dead – what's that about?_ '. All at once she remembered Halloween night. The kids on the beach. Her stomach twisted uncomfortably.

Violet took his hand in hers again, pressed her thumb down on his palm to steady herself. His frown deepend, but he didn't wake. Outside, the rain picked up its pace. The trees tapped disapproving fingers against the glass.

Her hand shook as she balanced the sharp edge of the razor blade against his wrist. Was she frightened? She couldn't tell anymore. She'd spent so long not being afraid of anything--or pretending not to be--that life had taken on a surreal quality, like something from a dream. Had she been scared in the basement? She couldn't remember now. It seemed like something that had happened to someone else…or maybe something she'd watched on TV.

Violet swallowed heavily, pressing the blade down and dragging it swiftly up Tate's arm towards his bunched-up sweater sleeve.

_Down the road, not across the street._

Pain worked reflexively, and Tate's body responded before he had time to fight his way back to consciousness. He yanked his arm back towards his body before his eyes even opened, jerking awkwardly across to the other side of the bed, away from Violet. When he opened his eyes he looked lost, a puppy that didn't understand why it had been kicked.

"What…?" he murmured, sleepily, moving his arm away from his body to examine the cut with confusion. It was deeper than Violet had intended--a thick gash that had not only broken the skin, but parted the flesh into a hungry mouth.

Violet stared at it in the half-dark. It was bloodless, as if she'd cut into a piece of raw chicken.

Tate's face contorted in pain as his brain registered what his body was already telling him: pain. Sharp and fierce. The pain of the blade. And the pain of betrayal.

"What the _fuck_ , Vi?"

Violet couldn't meet his gaze. She, too, stared fixedly at the bloodless cut. So Constance was right.

He wasn't bleeding. _He was a ghost._

But as she watched, the cut blossomed, a swell of blood through the split in his flesh that filled the gash quickly, spilling over his skin. He made a sound Violet couldn't quite interpret (anger? pain? confusion?) and stared at her, his mouth slightly parted.

And then, gradually, he smiled: a slow smirk that crept across his features like a cloud passing across the sun.

Finally, Violet met his eyes. The drumming in her chest ceased. She opened her mouth to say something, but the words wouldn't come.

"Lick it up." Tate said, softly.

"What!" now that she was able to speak, the words started tumbling out all at once, jumbled and wrong "…Tate, I didn't mean to hurt--I just…I spoke to your mom and then I…I thought I was going crazy so I--shit, you're bleeding so much, I--shit, _shit,_ I'm sorry…"

Tate sat up, tugging his sweater over his head. The sleeve pulled over the cut, scraping away the top layer of coagulating fluid, reopening the wound. He tossed the bloody garment on the floor, watching Violet carefully. He held out his arm to her.

"Lick. It. Up." He repeated, slowly.

Knees weak, legs trembling, Violet climbed back onto the bed. Tate said nothing. He held his arm steady, extended to her, the blood beginning to drip down onto her sheets.

"Tate…I think you need a bandaid or--or stitches or something… _fuck_ …" she winced as she watched the blood trail down the boys arm. "Maybe we should take you to hospi-"

"I didn't _ask_ you." He replied, tonelessly. "I _told_ you to lick it up."

Maybe she was dreaming. This could be a dream, couldn't it? Maybe he'd never saved her from the overdose after all, and this was all some elaborate hallucination she was having. Maybe she was in a coma state, pumped full of Naloxone, fighting for her life...

Hands still shaking, she reached out and took his arm. Her slender fingers curled around his wrist. His blood was hot, spilling out around her fingers.

"Jesus Christ…" she whimpered.

"Just do it."

Slowly, Violet bent her head towards the cut. She could smell the blood as she got closer--a thin, metallic scent like rust. She'd licked at her own blood before. It wasn't like she was squeamish about it. But this was different. There was so _much_.

Closing her eyes, she stuck her tongue out, licking up the length of Tate's arm. Blood mixed with salt, with sweat, the singular, specific taste of his skin. Violet flicked her tongue back into her mouth slick with his blood.

Tate began to laugh, softly.

"What's it like?" he asked her. His voice sounded soft again. Warm.

She opened her eyes to look at him. Her lips were parted, dark and wet with blood.

"…it's…" she tried to think. She felt dizzy, suddenly. Not quite present in her own body. Tate's blood tasted different to her own. Richer, somehow. More complex.

"It's…good…?" she wasn't sure if that was the right answer, or even what she wanted to say.

He smiled at her, reaching out to grip her shoulders, pulling her close to him. His chest was warm, and she was painfully aware of his lack of shirt, his nakedness.

Tate's mouth closed over hers, tongue tracing her lips to taste the blood, probing gently at her mouth to open it. She yielded, parted her own lips and let him slip his tongue inside.

Violet moaned gently into the kiss, allowing herself to be pulling down onto the mattress. They lay there for a moment, a tangle of limbs, his hands running over her, her shoulders, her sides, her hips, before he repositioned himself to hover over her.

He broke the kiss, looking down. His bloody arm was rubbing against her bare shoulder, where her t-shirt had slipped down.

"I don't care why you did it." He said. She could feel his weight above her, his hips pressing against hers. All at once she wanted him, badly. Worse than she had when they were on the beach. She let out a shaky breath, reaching one hand up to rest on his hip, fingers ghosting over the arch and cut of his pubic bone. Warm. He was so warm. 

So human.

"You owe me, now." He continued. There was something in his eyes--something unreadable. Violet didn't reply, just snaked her hand a little further up, over his stomach, up to graze along his ribs.

Tate's eyes closed for a moment. His hips pressed down against hers.

"That's how it…works…" his breathing was heavier. She could feel it in the erratic rise and fall of his chest. "You…cut me...I…cut…nmff... _you_. Next time."

Violet let her hand fall back down to the waistband of his pants. She wanted to go on, wanted it more than she'd ever wanted anything. But something stopped her. Maybe it was the implication of his words: ' _next time_ '. Or the memory of what had happened Halloween night. How shitty she'd felt when he'd rejected her.

"Okay," she agreed, letting her hand fall back to the bloody sheets beside her. "I'll let you. _Next time_."


	2. Paranoia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following her nocturnal exploration of the inner workings of Tate Langdon's veins, Violet continues her investigation: is her new boyfriend what he appears to be, or is there something more sinister at work?

"How was school?"

Violet looked up at her mother, a forkful of salad poised halfway to her mouth. Dinner was even more of a drag now that her dad wasn't living with them. Without the buffer of 'adult conversation' (which generally consisted of her parents sniping at one another across the dinner table, or--depending on how many glasses of wine Violet's mother had downed before the meal--strained pleasantries and cold glances) Vivien Harmon had returned her attention to her teenager daughter with the kind of singular intensity and manic enthusiasm usually displayed by some of Ben's kookier patients.

Violet closed her mouth over the fork, chewing on the salad slowly, deliberately. She said nothing.

"…Violet?" Vivien smiled tightly. "Honey, how was school?"

Violet rolled her eyes, placed her fork back on the table. "I heard you the first time, mom. Fine. It was fine."

"Fine?" Viv's chin rested on her balled-up fist. She hadn't touched her food, Violet noticed. "Have you…made many friends yet? What about those girls who were--"

"Do you believe in ghosts, mom?" it wasn't exactly a natural segue, but of the two topics, Violet would far rather discuss the paranormal than the crack-addicted hose beasts she had the misfortune of attending high school with.

Vivien raised her eyebrows. "Ghosts?" she laughed, picked up her fork and shoved the salad around her plate. "That's a weird question, Vi…"

Violet shrugged, for the first time looking up at her mother, looking her directly in the eye. "Sure. Ghosts. You know…'things that go bump in the night'…" a tiny smirk tweaked up at the corners of her mouth. Her mother was uncomfortable. That was interesting. Discomfort was certainly better than ambivalence, or the faux-sunshine-and-rainbows bullshit they usually had to deal with over dinner. 

"I hadn't really thought about it." Vivienne shrugged, shoveled a limp forkful of greens into her mouth.

Violet pushed her plate away. She wasn't even sure why she'd bothered to ask--why she'd thought that perhaps on this occasion her mother might give her a honest answer instead of the same canned bullshit she'd been feeding to Violet since she was a child. When was her mom going to figure out that Violet wasn't a little kid anymore? That she could be spoken to like a goddamn adult--that she was ready for the truth, even if it was painful. Or scary.

Even if it hurt.

Violet had thought the home invasion might have changed something between she and her mother. Might have proved that they were strong together than they were apart--that Violet was a capable, smart, confident _adult._

But apparently not.

"Yeah, right." Violet pushed her chair away from the table, standing up. "You've never thought about it…even though you live in a _murder_ house…"

"Come on, Vi. That's not what I--"

But Violet was already out the door, gone in a flurry of ill-fitted skirts and the distinct small of incense, dust, and candle-wax.

Vivien pushed the rest of her salad around her plate, staring into the small patches of oily porcelain, as if, like tea-leaves, the dregs of dinner might go some way to divine the future. Or at least help her to figure out what the hell was going on in Violet's head.

* * *

 

It had been surprisingly easy to get Ben to see him again. After their meeting on Halloween, the power dynamic had shifted slightly. Ben was obviously embarrassed, and when Tate didn't show up to a few of their subsequent coffee-and-crying dates, the psychiatrist had been more inclined to reconsider his position.

Tate liked to think it was because Ben cared deeply about his mental health. Privately, however, he suspected it had more to do with the fact that Ben was flat broke.

Still, kinda weird to be in the office again. Especially since _Mr Harmon_ was no longer a formal resident of Murder House.

"So…" Ben tapped his pen on his notebook. "…why didn't you show up to our last few meetings, Tate? I thought we had an agreement."

Tate shrugged, pulling the sleeves of his sweater over his hands. "I just forgot, I guess."

"You forgot?" Ben raised an eyebrow "…come on Tate. I thought you wanted to get better. It's a commitment--do you understand that? We're talking about your health, here. And your safety. You can't just 'forget' to show up…"

Tate shrugged, slumping back in the chair. "I'm sorry Doctor Harmon. It wasn't like…deliberate. I just have a lot on my mind, you know?"

"Like what?" Ben leaned forward in his chair, a well-practiced expression of concern on his face--professional, but not so much so as to appear insincere. "Have you been sleeping okay, Tate? Have the visions been bothering you again?"

" _Again_?" Tate laughed, ran a hand through his hair "…are you kidding? Try 'always'. It's constant, man. I don't _get_ a break. If I'm not seeing it, then I'm thinking about it..." he leaned forward in return, mirroring Ben's body language. "...I'm always thinking about it. About all those bodies lined up. That's what I do, sometimes…what I see myself do. I play with the corpses, you know?"

Tate looked up at Ben, his eyes wide, pupils blown. It was an expression that might have appeared innocent, on anyone else--the kid was angelic, after all; with his unkempt halo of blonde hair, his blue-gray eyes. But there was something wrong, in the way he held his mouth. A tightness, a little quirk in the corners. He didn't seem afraid. Not quite. 

He seemed entranced.

"I move them around," Tate continued "arrange them. Sometimes in shapes--like they're puzzle pieces, know what I mean? Like they're some kinda fucked up craft project. Or sometimes I slit them up, gut them and finger-paint with their blood. Messages, I guess. Maybe it's poems. But I can never really make out the words, and I can't tell if I'm writing to myself or to whoever it is who's gonna find the bodies…"

Tate ran a hand through his hair again, agitated. The sleeve of his baggy sweater slid down his arm.

Ben Harmon had been a psychiatrist a long time--long enough to know that patients who wore long sleeves were often hiding something. Even if he hadn't been looking for it, it would have been difficult not to notice the long stripe of torn skin on Tate's arm. The wound was recent: raised, red, the skin around the edges of the scab puckered and shiny where the cells were working overtime to knit it back together.

Tate caught the change in Ben's expression. Slowly, he reached up to pull his sleeve back down. His eyes settled on Ben's. Blank. Unfathomable. 

"How did you get that cut, Tate?"

Tate laughed, folded his arms across his chest. "It's not what you think, Dr. Harmon". 

"What do you believe I think?" Ben made a few marks on his notebook.

"That I did it to myself. I didn't. Okay? I'm through with that shit." There was a change in Tate's voice. A hardening of consonants. It made him sound older, somehow. Stronger.

"Alright." Ben looked up at him. "So tell me about it. What happened?"

"You really wanna know?" a slow smile spread across Tate's features like an oil slick across a pristine pond. 

"Yes, Tate. I really want to know."

Tate leaned back in the chair, kicking his feet up onto the arm. "It was your daughter, Doc. Your precious little Vi. She cut me up. In my sleep." he grinned, head tilted to one side to get a better look at Ben. "She shouldn't have sharp things, Dr. Harmon. It isn't _safe_ ". 

To his credit, Ben Harmon managed on the smallest of reactions. He looked away a little too hastily. His pen, as he jotted down a few extra notes, shook. 

"You were right about her, Doc. Well…" Tate laughed "…sort of. She's not fearless, exactly. But broken? Sure." Tate kicked his feet down from the arm of the chair again, slumped forward so his elbows were braced against his knees. His eyes pierced into Ben's forehead, willing the doctor to look up at him.

Ben yielded, reluctantly. All the hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention.

"You know that's what it is, right?" Tate's speech was slower now, a casual drawl "Come on, Doc! You're a good psychiatrist. You know people need fear to survive. Fight or flight, right? Well, your daughter doesn't have that. Violet doesn't understand about _flight_." he nodded his head slowly, as if teaching a very simple lesson to a very small child.

"She's got the fight part covered, though. Man, you should have _seen_ it. Her face, when I started bleeding all over her clean white sheets. She didn't know what to do about it. But I helped her out…"

Ben stood up. Pen, notepad, the book he'd been using as a makeshift clipboard, all tumbled to the floor. "I gave you a chance, Tate. I don't want to hear it--any of this. We've been over this. All of it. This thing with my daughter--" he took a deep breath, looked away. "I think you should leave."

Tate's laughter died away. He stood up, slowly. The mirth in his eyes rotted away to a terrifying blankness. 

"I'm telling you this so you can help her, Doctor Harmon. You don't get it, do you? She's not right. She's changed. And you and your _lovely_ wife don't even notice. You're too fucking self absorbed to realize your baby girl is sneaking razorblades out of your bathroom cabinet and using them to cut herself up every night. And now she's done it to me. You think it'll stop there?" Tate was shaking now. He shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to steady himself. "Because believe me, it doesn't. It doesn't _stop_. You already lost one baby, Doctor Harmon. You feel good about losing another?"

There was no time to react. Besides, any retort Ben might have concocted in that moment would certainly have violated the rules of professionalism. He stayed silent, facing the window, listening for the click of the door, footfalls on the landing, and finally the distant slam of the front door.

Ben Harmon ran a calloused palm over his face, stooped to the desk drawer and pulled out a tiny silver flask. So what if it was one in the afternoon. It was five o'clock somewhere.

Should he believe Tate? The boy was troubled, there was no doubt about it. And yes, he'd lied before. But why would Tate lie about _this_? Ben unscrewed the little silver cap, took a quick swig. Maybe he should talk to Viv. If she'd even deign to do so. She'd have noticed if something was up with Violet…wouldn't she?

Ben took another sip from the flask, this time longer. This time deeper.

His head hurt already. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

 

Violet turned the doorknob to her father's office. It opened without resistance and she half-smiled, shaking her head as she walked into the empty room. Typical. Of course it wouldn't occur to her dad to maybe _lock_ the room where he kept all his patients' confidential records. Just like it hadn't apparently occurred to him that counseling the mentally ill in his _family_ _home_ was ill-advised if not downright negligent. 

Violet looked around the room, wandering over to the bookshelves, tracing her fingertips along the thick leather spines. She hadn't even had to wait until nightfall to break into her father's office. Her mom was out. Ben had complained of a headache and cancelled his remaining appointments. The house was empty. She was alone.

And she knew exactly what she was looking for.

She'd been curious about Ben's patient files for awhile. Who wouldn't be? She could only imagine the gruesome, perverse shit her father got to listen to every day of the week. Who _wouldn't_ be curious? She'd been saving the break in for a rainy day--half putting it off with the excuse of having too much homework, or wanting to finish the book she was reading, or whatever. She'd was dying to eyeball those files,  yeah-– but she hadn't wanted to be careless. 

As it turned out, it had been a combination of opportunity and necessity that landed her here in her dad's office at five thirty in the evening, already beginning to feel the nasty tug of guilt pulling her back towards the door, towards the safety (and moral high ground) of her bedroom. If her mom came home early....or if her dad had forgotten something...

No. This was important. And she might not get another chance. 

"Quit being a baby, Vi" she muttered to herself, turning back towards Ben's desk, her brow furrowed in determination. She would find what she was looking for. She had to.

Violet walked behind the desk, glancing at the papers and folders that lay strewn across it. Evidently Ben wasn't so great at organizing things. If cleanliness was next to godliness, Ben Harmon was the motherfucking antichrist. She moved an old coffee cup and a couple of used kleenex, sure to make a note of where they'd been previously, and started to flip through files, folders, and loose leaf paper. Most of the stuff looked like inconsequential bullshit; bills, invoices, print-outs for real estate websites (which she assumed were left over from when he was hunting for a place to live) and outdated issues of _Psychology_ _Today_. Nothing all that useful, really. But it was so messy, she figured he wouldn't notice much if she didn't put everything back _exactly_ as she'd found it. 

Whilst she searched, Violet reflected on the past few days. The night with Tate in her bedroom had been…intense, but she still hadn't figured out what it proved (or didn't prove). She'd realized, after the fact, that she knew sweet fuck all about ghosts. What was the point of making Tate bleed if she didn't even know whether _not_ bleeding was a typical ghost _thing_?

So far, Tate wasn't ticking too many of the stereotypical ghost boxes. He was corporeal. He could touch things and interact with his environment. She'd never seen him walk through a wall or float six inches above the floor or rattle chains or fade into a fine mist, so if she was going to even slightly consider the fact that he could be _not_ _alive_ , she was obviously going to have to review her assumptions about what ghosts were.

Quite aside from whether or not her boyfriend was goddamn Caspar, there were quite a lot of other things plaguing her about that night. 

He'd said he loved her. Actually _said_   it. Nobody had ever done that before (aside from her parents, who hardly counted). It ought to have made her feel something. Special. Unique. Important. Weren't there supposed to be cardiovascular fireworks or some shit?

But something about the way Tate said it…or maybe it was the circumstances, the fact that she'd…well, nearly _died_. It had made her feel wrong, somehow. Sick. Damaged.

Violet bit her bottom lip, rifling through a number of files Ben had stored in the very back of a drawer. When Tate had told her he loved her, she'd realized how little she actually knew about him. How much of their connection could be based on a lie--or worse, on some stupid assumption, the desperation for a friend, for someone who made her feel less lonely.

Why did he like her so much? Scratch that, why did _she_ like _him?_ Because he liked the same music that she did? Because he saw her scars and didn't lecture her, or freak out and run away? Because he was so fucked up that he didn't find her darkness disturbing?

It wasn't right, was it? That he should find the black chasm inside her, all the stuff about her that was _wrong_ \--attractive. Sexy, even.

Violet grit her teeth, opening another drawer and flipping through the folders. She had to find out what was going on with Tate. What he was _really_ like, when he wasn't around her. She had to find out who Tate Langdon really was.

It was another thirty minutes before she found his file, wedged between two books that sat on the smallest shelf next to the chair Ben usually reserved for patients. After she'd retrieved it, Violet spent nearly as long straightening the office again, trying to restore it to the same particular style of mess it had been in when she'd first entered.

It was getting dark now. The very last rays of milky winter light retreated across the hardwood floor. Her dad wouldn't be back at the house, in theory, until the morning--but the lack of light, the eerie quality the room took on as shadows curled their dusty fingers over the furniture, up the pristine walls, gave Violet the heebie geebies.

With a final glance around the room to ensure that everything was as she'd left it, Violet tucked Tate's file inside her baggy cardigan and left.


End file.
